


Don't Tell Mom the Babysitter's a Megalomaniac in a Butterfly Suit

by yuletide_archivist



Category: The Venture Bros
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-12-22
Updated: 2008-12-22
Packaged: 2018-01-25 05:37:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,826
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1634378
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yuletide_archivist/pseuds/yuletide_archivist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Venture dares to request a favour from. The Monarch? He will be crushed for his impunity! CRUSHED I TELL YOU. Wait. what did he just ask?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Don't Tell Mom the Babysitter's a Megalomaniac in a Butterfly Suit

**Author's Note:**

> Written for CadetDru

 

 

"What? I'm not looking after your kids! You came all the way to my secret lair in order to ask me to look after your kids?"

Dr. Venture squeezed his hideous face into the most appealing expression he was capable of making. "It's only for a couple of days," he said. "A week, tops."

The Monarch was not fooled. "I'm your arch-enemy, Venture. My whole life is dedicated to destroying you, and then pissing on the remains. Why would I do you a favour?"

And things probably would have ended right there if Venture hadn't pulled the unforgivable act. He sighed. His lip wobbled. He sat down on the couch next to The Monarch and began to _cry_. Not loudly or anything, but his eyes were getting all wet and blood vessel-y and his nose was swelling up like a hideous fleshy balloon.

"Stop it! Stop sobbing!" The Monarch said. "I always wanted to see you in tears, but because of me. Because I was slowly pouring acid on your privates or something. You're ruining my revenge fantasies!"

"It's just without Brock, there isn't anyone I can trust to look after them," Venture wailed. 

"Samson? He's still gone?" The Monarch filed that away under _Useful Things To Know When Planning To Destroy Venture_.

"He didn't even come back when the ancient cult of pooka-worshippers tried to sacrifice the boys last week. They would never have gotten near the boys before! Then I tried getting Helper to look after them. He did it perfectly well when they were infants, but they're faster now and less easily pacified by formula and graham crackers. Anytime they wanted to get away from him, they'd manage it in a minute, and then next thing you know, trussed up on the altar. Again."

"So? Your kids are like immortal or something. And it's not like you care about them. I had them kidnapped for weeks before you even noticed!"

Venture shifted. "Circumstances right now mean the boys aren't as- safe as they used to be."

"This doesn't have anything to do with that creepy pink army of Hanks and Deans you unleashed the day Samson left, does it? What, did you grow yourself an army of clones and then just decant a new pair whenever the current ones got killed? And now you don't have any left so for the first time you feel the cold breath of your children's mortality huffing wetly at your ear?" The Monarch laughed to show how ridiculous that was. "Just kidding! That would be insane, even for you. You mean because Samson isn't around anymore."

"I always knew I could leave the boys with Brock and they'd be safe," Venture said. "But then he walked away from everything we had."

The Monarch considered mocking him, but there was the danger Venture would start to cry again. It wasn't even the good kind of crying. It was just a bit pathetic. "Well, why don't you take them with you? I mean, you took them to the Amazon, for Christ's sake. And Hank told me he went volcano-surfing on your last trip. Volcano-surfing. I know parents trying to off their kids for the insurance money who wouldn't let them go volcano-surfing, and all Hank got was a case of hot-feet. Is there a dangerous spot on this earth that they haven't run rampant over? What makes this trip so special?"

"I'm going to a science conference. In Las Vegas."

"Oh," The Monarch said. 

"Sex. Drugs. Gambling. Loose women. I can't expose the boys to that. They'll ask me about the facts of life. I've been avoiding that conversation for nineteen years and I'm not stopping now."

"I thought they were sixteen," The Monarch said.

"Are you going to nitpick or are you going to admit the sheer terribleness of having to explain sex to these faces?" Venture shoved a picture of Hank and Dean in The Monarch's face as some kind of visual aid or something. Reluctantly, The Monarch had to admit it worked. The kids probably still believed in the Easter Bunny. You could see it in their hatefully innocent eyes.

"You could always skip the conference," he said. Inside he railed. _I can't believe I'm giving advice to my arch-enemy!_ But it didn't seem like he was going to get out of this freakish Twilight Zone any time soon, so he decided to roll with it. Besides, Venture looked- old, and worn down, and The Monarch wasn't exactly feeling on top of the world right now. (What a ridiculous saying, anyway, on top of the world. Everybody was on top of the world. Well, except for dead people. And mole men.) Not since 24 had the gall to go and get himself blown up without permission.

Venture scoffed. "Skip the conference? Sex! Drugs! Gambling! Loose women! You expect me to let that sort of chance go by?"

The Monarch had to agree with this, and he would have done so both loudly and enthusiastically if he hadn't remembered that Dr. Mrs. The Monarch was in the next room and for all he knew sneakily judging his morals right then. "As a married man, I deplore your morals, you pusillanimous wretch," he declared instead, raising his voice in the hopes his wife would hear.

"I'm the keynote speaker. They're _paying_ me to go to Las Vegas."

And that was, quite unarguably, the fabled Offer You Couldn't Refuse. Not entirely believing he was doing this, The Monarch leaned forward. "Look, could you just say it's for science or the advancement of humankind or something?"

"What? You want me to lie?"

The Monarch jerked his head at Dr. Mrs. The Monarch, who'd entered the room with a cup of coffee and sat down on the couch next to him with an _I had better be here so nothing dumb happens_ look on her face. It was both touching and infuriating. Didn't she trust his genius? His ability to masterfully conquer any situation? Was she still hung up on the missile incident? He'd _meant_ to fire at the Dairy Queen! They deserved it! Once when he was an undergraduate, they'd stiffed him out of five dollars and twenty-five cents! It certainly wasn't that he'd accidentally pressed the "destroy with impunity" button looking for a way to wind down the cocoon's window to grab the burgers.

"Oh." Venture finally seemed to get what The Monarch was trying to communicate. About time. "Yes, well, if I don't go to this conference, the, ah... scientific world could be set back decades." He winked ostentatiously.

"Okay. Well, even though I hate you-" -The Monarch winked back,--"and I do hate you, my god." His hands clenched unconsciously. "Oh, let me enumerate the ways in which I despise you. I would happily feast on your entrails in front of your own disbelieving eyes. I would tie you down and cover you with ants and then have you transported to an area about to experience a severe thunderstorm, so that the panicked rushing about of the ants all over your body caused by the atmospheric disturbance would slowly drive you mad. They do that, you know," he added. "Ants. Whenever it's about to rain. They got in the kitchen of the cocoon once. It was like watching ten thousand tiny Morris dancers suffering from the bends. Anyway, the point is I hate you so, so much. So much that I-"

"Yes, alright, I get it, you hate me a lot," Venture said.

The Monarch blinked, derailed from his conversational derailment. "I do. Ohhhh, how I do. But as a member of the scientific community," he dropped his voice and hissed, "and a married man who feels the need to live vicariously through someone else's sexual conquests, I feel I must support you."

"We're supporting Dr. Venture?" Dr. Mrs. The Monarch asked. "Did you forget the meaning of the term arch-enemy? We should be destroying his life and everything he stands for. No offence, Doctor."

"Not at all, I understand completely," Venture said. He smiled at Dr. Mrs. The Monarch with a sort of googly look on his face. The Monarch would never be caught dead making such a moronic expression, even if his wife was six feet of awesome packed into a five foot four frame that was welded to his in the bonds of holy matrimony. Hey, that was kind of poetic. He should tape his inner monologues or something. 

"It's strictly temporary," Venture continued. Privately The Monarch thought he was laying it on a bit thick. "I'll just go and contribute to science, and the Las Vegas economy, and then I'll take them off your hands again."

Dr. Mrs. The Monarch looked skeptical. The Monarch hastened to reassure her. "It'll be fun! We can have... a cookout. And it'll be good for the henchmen to have something to do. Lately they've just been laying around playing World of Doomcraft or something." 

"This makes sense to you?" Dr. Mrs. The Monarch asked Dr. Venture. "Leaving your children with the people who want to kill you?"

He looked away. "Right now the safest place I can think of for them is locked up in a prison somewhere. And your prison cells are the ones I know best. "

It seemed like Dr. Mrs. The Monarch was being won over by their remarkable logic, and The Monarch was going to fulfil his responsibilities as a man by helping another guy Get Some. That was the entire reason, certainly nothing to do with pity or fellow-feeling or any other squashy emotion. He decided to seal the deal. "What could wrong?" he asked, beaming. "Oh crap! Wait! Don't end the scene on that! Nothing good happens when you end the scene on that line!"

*

_Some time later, deep in the jungle._

The Monarch took a deep breath after the videophone connected, and the screen of static cleared to show the smiling and slightly reddened face of his arch-enemy and current babysitter-employer. Babysittee? No, that was probably Hank and Dean. Was there even a term for the people who hired babysitters? Whatever. He had more pressing matters. More pressing matters like yelling at Venture so hard the man's eardrums would implode in self-defense. "Venture, was this a cunning plan? Did you secretly send your offspring to me in order to destroy my organization from the inside out?"

"The boys are having fun, then." Venture sounded relaxed, damn him. Relaxed and slightly drunk. He looked happy, too. Well, of course he did, without his children sucking the life out of him with their damn antics. The Monarch knew he had lost months off his life expectancy.

"Having fun?" he hissed. "They crash-landed the cocoon in South America. We're having to fight our way through a jungle filled with jaguars and plants that want to eat us! That's just not natural!"

"Wonderful," Venture said. 

"I can't believe this is normal for you! I haven't slept a wink since they got here! Hank nearly decapitated himself riding the ventilation chutes and Dean tried to make friends with an alligator that the people around here call The Great Man Killer. If you don't come pick up your brats soon I might just conveniently forget to let them reboard the cocoon and leave them to death by dehydration."

"Yes, yes, I'm sure you're doing a great job. And hey, things are going great for me. I think I'm really connecting with someone." Venture looked away from the camera. Off to one side, The Monarch spied a woman doing something he was reasonably certain was sinfully illegal. Venture called, "Dance at Table Seven, please!"

"Why are you ignoring me? Why does nobody believe my death threats?" The Monarch shrieked. "Do I have to kill some minor henchmen or something?" Twenty yellow and black hooded heads behind him shook in terrified unison. "I'll do it! I will!"

Dr. Mrs. The Monarch put a soothing hand on his shoulder. "Darling, the henchmen know you'll kill them. Don't you boys?"

The henchmen nodded fervently. It was good to see they all appreciated his might.

"Look, Monarch," Venture said, sounding- gentle? Really? Rusty Venture could be something less than an enormous dickwad? What the hell? Were raindrops going to start falling upwards? "I am absolutely certain that if you got the chance, you would kill both me and my sons with no hesitation."

"There'd be some hesitation," The Monarch said. "I mean, I'd do it stylishly, you know. Old school. Like sticking you in a room full of butterflies with razors strapped to their wings. Your deaths would be-"

"A horrible tale for generations to come?"

The Monarch nodded. "A horrible tale for generations to come! Wait- I've used that one before?"

"A couple of times." Venture screwed up his face. "Once in Paraguay, once in... Antarctica, I think."

"Dammit. You know, you get a good line, and you just want to keep using it."

"I know." Venture nodded.

The Monarch felt he should explain properly. "But at the same time, you have to stretch yourself as an artist or you're never going to really make it to the big leagues, you know. How about, Your deaths will echo through the ages like the chilling scream of the banshee?"

"That's good."

"Not too wordy?"

"It's good, darling," Dr. Mrs. The Monarch said.

Venture nodded. "Our deaths will echo through the ages like the scream"

"Chilling scream."

"Chilling scream of the banshee, yes. If you catch me and the boys. But you wouldn't agree to look after them and then kill them. And frankly-" Venture hesitated, clearly torn, but the alcohol had done its work in lowering his inhibitions. "Frankly, with Brock gone, you're the closest thing they have to a reliable male role model. Except for the dressing like a butterfly and being a supervillain thing. But at least you're not going to molest them, and you seem to have a healthy relationship, and essentially, although you're a horrible human being you're the best of the freaks I know."

The Monarch waved to his wife. "Honey! Quick! Come here!" he hissed.

"Are we going to firebomb the brothel he's at?"

"No. I've got a strange feeling- sort of warm. And kind of tickly around my heart-area. Am I coming down with something?"

His wife bit her lower lip. "That's emotion, sweetie. I think you might be touched."

"No! I can't get all sniffly over my arch-enemy! Venture! Stop sharing! I'll have your kids back to you safe and sound as long as you stop sharing emotionally!"

"Okay," Venture said. "I'm going to get back down to the bar for happy hour, then. Half-priced Mai Tais."

"Fine! Enjoy yourself with your filthy liquor. I'll see you at the pick-up on Tuesday."

The screen went to black. The Monarch sighed. "So we're not going to ambush him at the pickup?" his wife asked.

"What? Of course we are!"

"I thought you were- you know, touched."

"Well, I'm not going to just kill the Venture brothers, no. But I have my pride. I can't just hand them over without a fight. We'll hold them for ransom. Or something. And let's try to brainwash them." Did he hear his wife rolling her eyes? "It works sometimes," he said defensively. "And it's a classic. Soon, soon, they shall know the might of- The Monarch!!!" 

He put one foot on his chair and posed at an angle he knew made him look fierce and intimidating, and also hid the slight knock-knees he had. Yes! This was what being a supervillain was all about! This was what he lived for! This was- what the hell were those noises? Were those angry jaguar howls? And screams? 

"Quick, Dean, up the tree! Jaguars can't climb trees!" came Hank's excited voice.

"I don't think that's right, Hank," Dean's voice floated in. "It's coming up pretty fast!"

"Let's jump in the pond, then! Cats hate water!"

_Splash._

The Monarch rubbed the bridge of his nose. It wasn't like he wanted to keep the boys from dying a horrible, painful death, but he'd promised. Yes, that was right. It was simply a matter of evil honour. "But first can someone go and rescue those damn kids from the piranha pond? And one of the henchmen, go get some sour cream. It's taco night."

One of the henchmen hurried off. "Lactose-free!" the Monarch called. "I think Dean is intolerant! He had a very odd rash after that milkshake!"

His wife was staring at him. "What?" he said. "It's not like I like the kids or their miserable excuse for a father. I just don't think death by tiny fish or inability to digest dairy products is dramatic enough to satisfy my need for operatic revenge."

"Of course, darling," Dr. Mrs. The Monarch said, and went to get her anti-piranha machete. "And stop smiling!" he yelled after her. "I'll get them next time! Or... whatever!"

 


End file.
